I think it’s a pretty common trope that “you don’t know when you’ll do X for the last time, so enjoy every single time”. That’s usually used in the sense of making a family vacation special, or Christmas, or some other important and momentous life event. It’s true that we should value the time we have, and it’s valuable to care about the special occasions we spent with those we care about. No argument from me there.
But in my case, “the last time” comes up a lot more often than in the sappy internet memes. And about a lot more than the huge family vacations. I didn’t know when I was getting a hug from Kellie for the last time (only about two or three minutes before she died). I didn’t know when I was buying her breakfast for the last time (the morning of her death, from Bob Evans). I didn’t know when I was cooking for her for the last time (the day before it happened). I’m surrounded by memories of lasts with Kellie—not just in our house but in the world. In my head, too.
And it’s true that that pertains to the big stuff as well. This Christmas is going to be unbearably difficult, because of how inescapable it will be. I will have no choice but to compare my last Christmas with her to this year’s Christmas. And next year’s. And the year after that. And the year after that. Forever.
So extrapolate the concept of “Christmas” out into everything you care about and love in your life and everything you’ve shared with your soulmate across thirty years. How can we expect anyone to walk through this minefield of lasts without being sad every minute of every day?
I saw a meme a year or two ago talking about how you should value and make the most of every summer you spend with your dog, since they only get ten or fifteen summers in their entire life. It pretty much destroyed me emotionally at the time, because we had just lost Sage. And I knew that we HADN’T made the most of every single summer we had with her. How could we, in fairness? I don’t think our minds work that way, after all. Many of us might try to be mindful and live in the moment as much as we can, but nobody’s THAT mindful. Everyone has big chunks of their lives that they sleepwalk through, whether they want to or not.
This reminds me of the old Quaker belief (since they didn’t typically celebrate religious holidays) that there aren’t any specific days that are especially holy, because we should be celebrating every day as being holy. That appeals to me, in the sense that it reminds us we should be making the most of all our days instead of just saving up our spiritual energy for Passover, or (again) Christmas, or even every Sunday.
So, yes. Every Christmas, every family vacation, every summer should be special. And that’s all well and good. But for those of us who have experienced a major loss, special occasions are the least of our worries. Every. Single. Thing. In our lives is a continuous reminder of what we’ve lost.
I headed out toward Cleveland today to get my flu and COVID boosters at Costco. (Pro tip from someone who knows about this stuff: I’d highly recommend you get the Novavax injection if you can. It’s called Nuvaxovid, and it’s more effective and also more-easily tolerated by more people. It’s a win-win.) And a side note here: If you aren’t getting an updated COVID vaccine every year, you’re making a huge mistake. The virus continues to kill folks and worse than that, continues to leave millions of Americans dealing with long-term or even permanent side-effects. Absolutely stupid of you to not do everything you can to try and prevent that for yourself, for me, and for everyone else around both of us.
After that mission had been accomplished, I went to the Van Aken District for some yummy lunch. For whatever reason, I couldn’t get the memory out of my head of the last time we had gone there for lunch together. It got worse and worse for me as I approached the restaurant I’d intended to grab a sandwich from, and I couldn’t help but ruminate a bit about the unfairness of that. I’m the one left here alone, but I can’t experience any of the things that we did together without fighting my way through a vast mountain of sorrow to do them—that feels pretty damn unfair.
And all of this feels unfair, a lot of the time. It’s not Kellie’s fault, it’s not my fault, it’s not God’s fault. It’s not the doctors’ fault. It’s not the coroner’s fault. It’s not the paramedics’ fault. It’s not society’s fault. Many of those people made my experience much harder than it had to be (and Kellie’s, too), but it’s not their fault that Kellie’s not here anymore. It’s nobody’s fault—she died, and there isn’t anyone that I can fairly blame for it. When I think too deeply about that lack of a direction to point, it makes me angry. It would be so much easier, maybe, if I could say that a specific surgeon had made a mistake, or that there was a drunk driver who shouldn’t have gotten behind the wheel that day. I know that’s not true either. I know that the anger is not a problem, because feelings are neither good nor bad—they’re just feelings.
If I had a person to point at, that could get deeply unhealthy, I think. It would be so easy to obsess over each little detail of WHY they were responsible and HOW they should be punished for it. But neither of those things would bring her back, and they sure wouldn’t make my experience of widowhood any more bearable than they are now.
So when my anger comes, it just comes. I might yell at the top of my lungs about some of the things that aren’t fair. I might try a thought experiment of blaming someone for Kellie’s death, even though I know it’s not logical. I might cry, or just sit down and not focus on really anything. And then it goes away and leaves me stranded, like a seashell on the beach after high tide. I have to find my own way back to myself after the anger is gone, and then continue on with my day. That’s just the way it goes.
Today, when I arrived at the restaurant, I couldn’t bear the thought of one more comparison to the last time we’d gotten food there together. So I turned left, walked down a random hallway, and picked an entirely different restaurant. I decided to make it “the first time” I’d eaten somewhere rather new. Today, that was the solution I can live with.
I don’t think that’s the perfect answer for me for many or most things. I’m not going to stop doing things which we did together, or loving food which we loved together, or caring about music we listened to together. I’m not going to populate my entire life with firsts, because the lasts matter to me, a great deal. I want them to matter to me, because I want her ripples to still exist in the world, even if they only exist within me.
It’s a quiet night here. The pups and I took a long nap after I got home, and I’m just trying to find some joy and not dwell on the sorrow more than I have to.
Life is precious—enjoy the things you’re doing right now, and tomorrow, and the day after. It’s just—I wonder how you might do them differently if they continually reminded you of the last time you’d done them with someone you didn’t have anymore? Or how you might enjoy something if you knew it was going to be your last time? I’m on this side of the equation now, and don’t have the luxury of the latter. But you probably do. Try to make the most of it. Of everything. Trust me on this one.
XOXO,
Matt